Divorce papers? Rose Harrison? A clean break?

Delilah Kelly’s ears pricked up, the sharp scent of a shift in the wind catching her attention. She turned a predatory gaze toward Maximus Anderson, who lay delirious and feverish in his bed. Her brow furrowed. What was he playing at? He had been practically foaming at the mouth for a divorce for months—so why the sudden hesitation?

Could he be… having second thoughts? The thought struck her like a physical blow. A cold, sinking dread coiled in her gut. Her woman’s intuition, honed by years of cutthroat social climbing, screamed that it was true. Maximus was starting to feel something for that woman.

No. Absolutely not. If it was true, she would burn the bridge down herself. Her eyes narrowed into slits, her mind racing with a lethal calculation.

A moment later, she relaxed. A venomous smirk curled her lips. If Rose Harrison wanted out, she would give her exactly what she wanted—and then some. She slipped silently out of the room, her eyes darting toward the direction of Maximus’s private study.

Maximus had been bedridden for nearly a week. Whether it was the fever from the rain or simply a soul that had given up on fighting, he was a shell of his former self, gaunt and hollow-eyed.

Delilah moved through the Anderson Estate like a shadow. She didn't just steal the divorce papers; she made sure to swipe the marriage license and the family registration while she was at it. She reached out to an old contact—someone who owed her a favor from her darker days—and secured the forged divorce certificates. She didn't just stop there. She made sure the papers were signed, sealed, and mailed to Rose.

Once the package was out of her hands, the weight in her chest evaporated. She exhaled a long, shuddering breath. Nothing would stand in her way now.

She began to daydream, lost in the intoxicating haze of the future. The Anderson Group was hitting new heights, and it was all thanks to her cunning. If she hadn't framed Rose back then, if she hadn't manipulated the situation so masterfully, she would never have stepped foot in this estate, let alone stood in the wings waiting to be the next Mrs. Anderson. And Maximus? He never would have tapped into that ruthless commercial genius that had turned the Anderson name into a titan of industry.

She could already see it: the life of a queen, the high-society circles bowing to her, the sycophants clamoring for her attention. A triumphant, greedy laugh bubbled up in her throat.

Suddenly, the room felt colder.

Maximus had woken up. He watched her from the bed, his eyes fixed on her back, dark and unreadable. He had caught the tail end of her smug expression—a look of pure, unadulterated triumph that turned his stomach. What kind of filth was she cooking up now? And why was she even here? He had been so consumed by his own misery and regret that he’d completely neglected to deal with the viper he’d kept in his bed.

It was time to balance the scales.

Delilah finally snapped out of her trance. She turned around, but before she could wipe the smirk off her face, her eyes locked with his. Maximus was staring at her with the intensity of a predator circling prey. A shiver of ice skated down her spine.

"What are you doing here?" Maximus rasped, his voice cutting through the silence like a jagged blade. He forced himself upright, his movement stiff and pained.

"Max, you’re finally awake!" Delilah dropped the smirk, instantly twisting her face into a mask of pathetic, fragile concern. "You’ve been out for over two weeks. You terrified me!"

The saccharine tone made Maximus’s skin crawl. He felt a phantom chill, a violent wave of nausea. He knew exactly what she was now, and the act no longer worked on him. He didn't even acknowledge her plea. Instead, he stared right through her and barked toward the door, "Is someone out there? Get in here!"